The Complete Aliens Omnibus, Volume One (Earth Hive, Nightmare Asylum, the Female War)

by Steve Perry

  “Why’s that?”

  “In the last four months there have been three attempts to get to and from Earth. Three official attempts, if you know what I mean.”

  Wilks nodded. That meant other times that nobody wanted to talk about.

  “The first ship came back with a dozen or so new civilians but four marines outright dead or gone out of an eight-man crew. On the second, we lost almost all the crew and got zip rescues to show for it.”

  “And the third?”

  “Didn’t come back. It’s like the things knew the ships were coming and were laying for them. And we really can’t afford to lose any more hardware, local manufacturing facilities being what they are. Just about every crate that could get free of the gravity well left during the final days of the infestation. Some of those ships are here; a whole shitload more of them are far away, and nobody knows where.”

  Bako set his chopsticks down and looked at Wilks. “They’re planning another mission soon; you know how the brass hates to have its butt kicked, although you didn’t hear it from me. My point is, getting a ship to do something that could maybe help isn’t high priority right now. Even scout ships are worth more than diamonds these days.”

  And all Wilks wanted was a fully loaded starship to take God knew where across the galaxy to kidnap the mother of all aliens. Hypothetically speaking.

  He nodded, stood, and smiled at the baby-faced sergeant. “Thanks, Dimples. You’ve been a help.”

  “Don’t call me that. C-court tomorrow, 0800?”

  “Sure. I’ll tie both hands behind my back, even things up a little.”

  Wilks exited on Bako’s laugh, but stopped smiling as the door closed behind him. Bako’s information hadn’t exactly been a surprise. And if it were just him, he’d fuck going through the proper channels and just take a ship. He’d done that and he knew how it worked. But he didn’t exactly live in a void. Someone else was in charge, and if Ripley wanted to try and go by the book, he’d do what he could to help. But unless the general was dreaming of the alien superqueen, proving anything was going to be a bitch.

  * * *

  Charlene Adcox answered her door wearing a pale green kimono tied loosely at the waist. She was short and almost boyishly thin. Her close-cropped hair and sharp features made her look oddly masculine in spite of the gown she wore. Billie caught a scent of perfume, light and flowery.

  “Fem Adcox?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Billie. Could I speak to you for a moment?”

  “Concerning…?” Adcox smiled politely.

  Billie took a deep breath. “It’s about the dreams,” she said.

  Adcox paused, then moved back from the door, her smile gone.

  Billie stepped in. The room was larger than her own, decorated with Japanese prints and sparse, simple furniture. Adcox motioned to a futon for Billie to sit down, and seated herself across from her on a small wooden bench.

  “How did you get my name?”

  Billie hesitated. The psych files were classified, but an elaborate lie would eventually be found out by anyone whose help they enlisted. “There are others having the same dream,” she said. “Some of us rascaled the psychiatric files.”

  Adcox nodded. “Okay,” she said. The young lieutenant seemed more relieved than anything else, which Billie understood. “How many others?”

  “We can’t tell for sure. Upwards of fifty, at least. They’re all the same—they’re transmissions, not dreams. The aliens are telepathic or empathic, whatever. It ain’t coincidence.”

  Adcox offered her a weak smile. “No, it doesn’t sound like it. What do you want from me?”

  Billie pulled an info sphere from her pocket. “You can tell me where you think she is,” she said. “There are several possibilities described in these files. Only a few of us seem to be able to see location in the dreams, and you’re one of them. We want to find her.”

  Adcox tensed slightly. ‘To kill her?”

  “Yes. Her and her children.”

  Adcox reached out and took the sphere from Billie. “Call me Char,” she said.

  * * *

  Ripley wrapped the towel around her neck and padded naked to her bed. She stretched her long body across the pad, toes pointing and arms over her head. The interview with John Chin had gone well. He was an architect, one of the linear-minded dreamers, and had agreed to look at their map. Chin wasn’t a fighting man, and she doubted he would volunteer to come with them when the time came—but she imagined that there would be enough soldiers willing to take the risks…

  She closed her eyes. She wasn’t sleepy, but the shower had relaxed her to a meditative frame of mind. She wondered how Billie had made out with Lieutenant Adcox… how old was Billie? Twenty-three, wasn’t it?

  In October of Ripley’s twenty-third year, she had given birth to a beautiful, squalling, perfect little girl, Amanda Tei. Amy…

  Ripley let her mind fall deeper into the memory.

  * * *

  “Shhhh, Amanda. Little sweet Amanda.” She repeated the words over and over, a soft, lulling mantra to the newborn she held. The hospital room was dimly lit and done in soft colors. She had never met, and would never meet, the father; she had gone to a clinic, safer and neater for her single life. Except now she was a mommy…

  When the nurse laid the tiny child in her arms, Ripley had wept. She was so beautiful, so quiet and sleepy and tiny! Perfect little fingers and nails, a headful of dark, silky hair.

  The labor had been hard and long, but it was worth it.

  “Shh, little baby, sweet Amanda,” she crooned, wondering how she could ever show her daughter how much she loved her, with this love that could move mountains…

  A man’s face suddenly appeared a few inches from her own, frowning, his hand reaching out to touch her—

  * * *

  Ripley yelped, sat up in bed, eyes wide. She covered herself with the towel and looked around the room. No one. But—that face, that was—

  The man’s face had been in her head, in her daydream. And it had been—

  “Bishop?” Ripley shook her head. The android, the one with the soldiers, decades after her daughter had been born, years after her mother had failed to get home in time for her birthday.

  Where had that come from? Bishop… she hadn’t thought of him for a long time; the last time was—she had seen him last—

  No good. Her pleasant wanderings had gotten weird somewhere; maybe the strain of everything was getting to be too much to handle. Ripley sighed, confused and frustrated by her inability to know her own mind. Maybe she was tired after all…

  Ripley stood and reached for a coverall. She didn’t feel like being naked anymore.

  5

  Wilks tapped on Leslie’s door using the small bottle of whiskey he’d bought.

  “Hold on a sec!”

  He heard muffled footsteps coming toward him, and then a loud thump. “Shit!”

  Wilks smiled. The door opened to a very redfaced Leslie rubbing her right knee. Behind her was an overturned chair.

  “Wilks, you asshole,” she said, straightening up. She wore a snug black bodysuit and matching headband; sweat dotted her tawny skin. In spite of her words, she grinned. “That for me?” She motioned at the bottle.

  “Well, if you’re busy—”

  “Depends.”

  “I wanted to thank you for helping us out; thought we might have a drink, unless you’re otherwise involved—?”

  Leslie grinned wider and stepped back from the door. “You always were the subtle type,” she said, and her voice softened slightly. “Come in, David.”

  * * *

  Billie sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair and watched the vid screen flicker with the ruins of Earth. The scanner roamed, and it surprised her how much old data was still being broadcast. Mostly advertising for companies long dead, sometimes documentaries, the occasional fiction program; many were in different languages. Billie touched the command button from time to
time, looking for something real, something current.

  Something like Amy.

  There was a flash of static and then a black screen. Suddenly a man’s face appeared, a close-up. Middle-aged, he was handsome in a rugged way, sharp nose and strong jaw dominated by intense, dark eyes. His mouth was tightly set, deep lines etching the corners. He stared into the camera as if he were about to fight it, his gaze unwavering. Something about the bland determination on his face reminded Billie of—

  “This is an exercise of faith,” he said. “Of the new Christ and the power She commands.” His voice was deep and compelling.

  Spears, she thought. Like Spears.

  The camera pulled back to show the man standing on a low platform in a poorly lit studio. He was tall and short-haired and wore a tight coverall that emphasized his biceps and chest. A large knife was strapped to one hip.

  “I am Carter Dane,” he said, “and I have seen the Truth.”

  Billie heard quiet murmurs of approval from offscreen.

  “There is power in my hands. The Goddess has shown me the way.”

  He began to pace back and forth as he spoke. “The Goddess brings no fear. The Goddess has no fear. We are Her children, She our mother. We are not worthy of Her; it is the failing of humanity.”

  More mumbles of assent.

  Dane continued, his voice rising. “When the cleansing began, I was afraid. I cried in self-pity and fear—afraid for my own life and the lives of the weak and unworthy all around me.” He paused, for dramatic effect. “I was no more than a pile of shit,” he said.

  “Yes!” A hoarse cry from the unseen audience.

  “Useless and impotent fear,” he continued, “left me empty. Incapable of action. I wallowed in it; I was crippled by it!” He stopped moving, faced the listeners.

  “And She spoke to me. She asked for my help. The Goddess, the creator of so much power, asking a cripple to aid Her. Like She asks of all Her Chosen. And I became strong for Her, I learned of Her love, I found that death is shit! It is fear! It is nothing!”

  Billie sat transfixed, watching the screen; she found herself unable to move, to hit the command button. Another of the dreamers, and completely insane.

  Dane motioned to one side and a heavyset woman in ill-fitting soldier’s gear dragged a young man onto the stage. His hands were tied behind him and his slow, stumbling movements suggested heavy sedation. The soldier pushed him to the floor next to Dane and stepped back into the shadows. The boy looked barely out of his teens, was thin and dressed in rags and dirt. He lay on his side, eyes closed.

  Dane pointed at the prisoner but kept his gaze on the listeners. “This,” he said with disgust, “is humanity. Weak. Afraid. He is not fit to be the giver of Divine life, not when so many of the willing stand strong and proud in front of me.” Dane made a sweeping gesture toward the crowd, and put his hand on his hip.

  Put his hand on the hilt of the knife.

  He pulled it out slowly and held it up. “The old humanity has outlived its usefulness,” he said.

  He knelt beside the boy. The youth gave no sign of having heard the speech and did not struggle as Dane pushed the blade without apparent effort deep into the bound boy’s throat.

  Blood erupted out across the platform.

  The boy opened his eyes and his mouth, as if to speak. A horrible, wet gurgle was all that came out, a look of confused pain on his pale face. He rolled onto his back, his eyes fluttering. More blood spewed from the wound to mat his dark hair and white skin. His thin body shuddered in one final spasm. His eyes remained open.

  Dane ran the back of the knife across his forehead, smearing red across his brow. Swiftly he ran the point of the blade from the groin to the sternum of the dead youth, cutting deeply. He turned to face his listeners, a wild grin on his face.

  “Come and feed!” he shouted. “Eat of the flesh! Devour the old, become one with the Goddess!” He dropped the knife to the floor and thrust one bloodied hand into the boy’s gut, then lifted it to his own mouth. Dark figures stepped onto the stage, tattered men and women converging on the corpse, a dozen or more, faces crazed, laughing loudly, reaching, pulling—

  Dane ranted on, his mouth dripping blood, his voice cracking. “We are the Chosen! We will become! We will—”

  Billie hit the command button convulsively, breaking the trance. The screen went to static and dimly, as if from another place, she heard a commercial for a retirement complex begin. She shivered all over. She stood, knocked over her chair. She ran blindly away from the madness, her hand over her mouth. There was a waste bin in the corner of the room; she stumbled to it and vomited. Retched again and again.

  Slowly her surroundings came back into focus. Her spasms subsided into hitching, ragged breaths. “Okay,” she said, “okay, okay.” She brushed at her watering eyes. The dreams had been too much for their minds to bear on top of watching their world crumble, their families killed. But not her. They were sick, demented; she was here, and would change things.

  “Okay,” she said again, and straightened up. The smell of vomit was overpowering and sour, and she stepped away from the bin. She felt a sudden fury at what the queen had done. Her and her goddamn calling, urging those people into madness. Giving the unbalanced a reason to kill…

  Billie sniffled and wiped her mouth with the back of one shaky hand, then took a deep breath. The boy’s dying face would come back to her later, she knew; there was nothing she could do to change that. For now, she would concentrate on what she could change.

  * * *

  Wilks gently cupped his hand over one of Leslie’s soft, small breasts; she stretched leisurely and covered his hand with her own, smiling.

  They lay nude in a tangle of sweaty sheets, the musk of recent sex in the air. Wilks propped himself on one elbow beside her. He felt relaxed and at peace with his body. Leslie was a good lover, confident in her abilities without being assuming.

  “Mmm,” she said, and opened her eyes to look at him. “Not bad, Sarge. You should be promoted.”

  Wilks smiled. “Yeah, I think I make a pretty good drill sergeant. Drill, drill, drill…”

  Leslie made a face. “On the other hand, your jokes leave something to be desired. Like humor.”

  “What? Hey, I’m funny.”

  “Sheeit.”

  They lay still for a moment, preoccupied with their own thoughts.

  Wilks remembered his conversation with Bako. The evidence of the mother queen’s existence was not overwhelming in his own mind, so proving it to somebody who didn’t know Billie—specifically, to the general—would take a lot more than what they had.

  “When are you leaving, David?”

  “Hmm?”

  “The dream alien. You’re going to wherever she is. To get her.”

  It was a statement, not a question.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “There’s still a question of how—official backing is iffy.” He shook his head. “We’re not even sure of where she is yet. Ask me when I know more.”

  “And you’re going with nothing more solid than a psychic vision?”

  “Less—I don’t even dream the dream. But you do. Do you believe it?”

  “Yeah, I think she’s real.” She nuzzled her head against his bare chest. “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

  Wilks stroked the palm of his hand across her smooth belly in small circles, then moved lower, lightly touching the edge of her pubic mound. ‘Yeah? Anything?”

  She pushed up against him, eyes closed. His penis stirred, pressed against her leg. She rolled toward him, a sly smile raising a corner of her parted lips.

  “You are pretty good as a drill sergeant,” she said. “Now which is for shooting and which is for fun…?”

  * * *

  Alone in her quarters, Ripley shut down the computer and rolled her head forward, yawning. Her thoughts had started running into each other. It was late and the pills she had swallowed for an earlier headache didn’t seem to be working. Strong
er medication would require a prescription, and her intrinsic mistrust of medtechs—

  She frowned. How had that come about, anyway? Must have happened after the long sleep, some incident in the hospital that had lodged in her subconscious. She couldn’t recall caring either way before that…

  It didn’t really matter; headaches were not a major problem. Besides, it was most likely the stress of getting this action together that caused them.

  She felt satisfied that they had their planet. Both of the dreamers she and Billie had talked to had fingered the same system, and Leslie had listed it as the most probable.

  She walked to the bed, knuckled her tired eyes, and lay down, not bothering to undress. She hadn’t seen Wilks for a while and wondered if he had gotten the information about military transport. It would be best to get the go from the power on Gateway, but if they couldn’t—well, there were other ways.

  She thought about the daydream she had experienced earlier, of Bishop’s face surprising her back to reality. She had liked the android, an exception to her negative feelings for synthetics but his appearance in her mind had seemed wrong. Out of place, not of her own memory.

  Medtechs and artificial humans, the world of science and personal demons. Maybe they were all crazy. Maybe the idea was nothing more than a madwoman’s nightmare and Ripley had stumbled into it. Maybe…

  Ripley fell asleep.

  6

  Peter Schell was a heavy-set older man whose natural expression was a slight scowl; even when he smiled his brow creased downward. Ripley thought he looked like he had bitten into something sour.

  The man next to him, Keith Dunston, was much younger, around Billie’s age. He was small-boned and wiry, a martial arts teacher. Dunston had listened to Wilks outline the situation with a placid interest, as if he were watching a ’cast of a tennis match.

  Ripley had let Wilks do most of the talking to the two men. They had met in the private dojo where Dunston taught classes. After brief introductions, Wilks had quickly laid out their theory and research; Schell had interrupted several times with questions while Dunston remained silent, occasionally running a small hand through his short red hair. Both men looked tired.